The Far Side of the Moon
by infiniteviking
Summary: Then he saw his son stretched out in a smoking crater, and time stopped. Angsty oneshot concerning Isshin, Zangetsu, and the philosophy of sacrifice.


(Note: this story is necessarily set some time after the current manga events. But come on, people, the filler arc is going strong; where's all the zanpakutou fic? XD)

**The Far Side of the Moon**

The Hollows had poured out of the hole in the sky in a nightmare of masks and flailing segmented limbs, more than Isshin had ever seen in his long life. His _zanpakutou_ sang as he screamed defiance, for it was either that or be afraid. And there was no time to be afraid. Not with Yuzu weeping over her half-conscious sister; not with their blood staining the ground. _Once more_, he thought as he urged his leaden limbs to move. _Come on, once more for Daddy, for those dear to us. Just enough time for the girls to get to safety. One more Hollow that isn't going to hurt them. Just once more_.

It had nearly been enough. For a flashing moment, forcing his eyes open and trying to see through the red spots and slashes that last head-shot had left in his vision, he thought he'd won. After all, he was still alive -- you didn't fall before a Gillian, lose consciousness, and wake up living.

Then he saw his son stretched out in a smoking crater, and time stopped.

He might have been out for seconds; or it could have been minutes, or longer. Too long, whatever it was; long enough for a substitute _shinigami_ to fight and to fall. Ichigo's Hollow mask had been shattered from his face; some pieces were still spinning, bouncing, coming to rest. His sword, with a flare of expended energy, was already reverting from its _bankai_ state to the giant cleaver whose rumor had reached even to the living world and his father's ears. Bits of Hollow were raining around them: shadows, husks, dissolving into dust and then into nothing; but Ichigo had gone down hard, and did not move.

For a brief space Isshin thought him dead. Even with muddled senses, he should have been able to sense his son's massive spiritual signature; it shouldn't have been drowned under the malevolent intent of the creatures coiling in the darkness. Ichigo was a legend even in Seireitei. For all of that power to simply disappear....

..no, there it was. Some of it, at least. Faint, unsteady, but Ichigo was alive -- for now.

Isshin tried to get up, and nearly blacked out again. Blood loss, probably: he didn't have to be a doctor to guess at that. The Hollows were regrouping, waiting for their prey to prove helpless. _There's no time for this. No time_.

His eyesight blurred, just for a moment, the space between one heartbeat and the next. When it cleared, Ichigo was still lying on the ground, one bruised arm stretched out, unmoving.

And there was a black-robed man standing over him.

Isshin caught a glimpse of piercing eyes behind dark hair that streamed in the wind, and nearly recoiled in shock. For a moment, he wondered if he had died without noticing it -- there was no new spiritual pressure to announce the man's presence -- but the man leaned over to place a hand on Ichigo's heart, and suddenly it clicked.

_You're his zanpakutou_.

Isshin coughed, and realized he had not spoken aloud; tried again -- _Zangetsu_ -- but the word would not come. It didn't matter, anyhow. A sudden spike of rage gave him the strength to lever himself up on one arm.

"What are you doing?" he rasped. "My son is wounded -- you shouldn't have materialized; you should be in there, helping him!"

Zangetsu ignored him. He was bending down over Ichigo, whispering something into the boy's ear, too softly for Isshin to catch it.

Something slithered nearby: an ugly, restive sound. Isshin clutched at the hilt of his sword, but his own _zanpakutou_ was as exhausted as he. Ichigo's face was turned away, invisible, the shards of his broken mask littering the earth around him.

Then Zangetsu reached for the sword that lay at Ichigo's side.

To Isshin's muddled thoughts, it was a strange picture, one that made no visual sense. Could such a thing even work in the real world? Wasn't it like trying to pick yourself up by your own collar?

It could work. His mind offered up fragmented memories of the battle for his own _bankai_, and a voice he hadn't heard clearly since the old days in the Gotei 13 whispered: "_Stop him_."

He was moving before he knew it, refusing to feel the screaming pain of muscles in want of air. Something slammed into the side of his face, threw him back to the ground, back to Yuzu and Karin and Ichigo, and the only thing he could think of as the tall spirit faced him at last was that Zangetsu's kick was just like his wielder's.

"You will not throw your life away. He's using the last of his strength to save _you_."

Without waiting for an answer, Zangetsu turned away. Isshin blinked blood out of his eyes as the dark man's slender hand closed around the sword's hilt. The blade leapt upward as though galvanized. It had changed again; a slender chain swung from the hilt, its broken end molten, dripping sparks that spat and popped as they hit the wet pavement. One burnt a hole straight through the hem of the _zanpakutou_'s cloak, leaving an ugly white patch where it had passed.

Black fire sheared from the blade. The Hollows coiled around them, and sword and darkness blurred and became one.

Isshin's neck was empty of strength; bloody gravel shifted under his cheekbone. His vision was clearing, as much as it could under the pitiless night; his son's torn black hakama flapped in the wind, the red head turned away, as still as death.

A soul slayer fighting alone: could that even happen?

It could. It was.

_He's using the last of his strength to save you_.

"Idiot," sobbed Isshin. His fingers clawed at the ground, exhausted muscles finding some measure of purchase. "My idiot son -- don't you know that's what _I'm_ supposed to say--"

His hand brushed the shoulder of Ichigo's sleeve. Something split the air above him and a chunk of insectoid leg shattered next to his skull. Isshin raised his head and spat blood, no longer able to tell where the pain ended and the darkness began, caught a glimpse of flashing light and churning motion and the roiling of shadows above them, and pulled himself closer to Ichigo's side.

His son's eyes were closed behind a fringe of stained, matted hair. Ichigo's muscles were drawn tight, his breathing shallow, his skin far too cold -- there was a pulse, just barely, but it was a pulse. Isshin felt for pressure points, for the energy channels that flowed so differently in souls who walked free. How long had it been since he'd done this? How many years in the mortal world?

It didn't matter.

Isshin pulled himself up on to his knees and laid his trembling hands on his son's chest.

The damage was deep. Isshin did not look up. An enormous claw thundered into the earth five feet away. Isshin did not look up. Dark spatters of Hollow material fountained out at them as the claw fell over, separated from its owner. Isshin did not look up. There were roars in the distance, the loosed light and power of the _shinigami_ healing arts rousing more Hollows to come and feed, and Isshin ignored them.

Ichigo lay still, the threads of his life running small and cold.

Yuzu whimpered, and Isshin bit off a sob and kept working. He didn't even hear his own voice, cursing bitterly at the battle partner that had deserted Ichigo for a chance at more Hollows, until the part of his soul that got to talk back at him whispered: "_Be still and do your job_."

"You be still!" He might have been shouting or only thinking the words; he could neither tell nor care. "How can he be more interested in fighting than--"

"_Listen to them_," murmured his _zanpakutou_, and as much he wanted to, Isshin couldn't deny the stubborn flow of power and will directed outward, not inward, throwing life-force that could keep a heart beating away from the flesh that needed it and out into the maelstrom above.

"_Can't you feel it? He couldn't stay in that body if he tried. He wants exactly what Ichigo wants: to hold off the world; to save you all. Ah, Isshin, we should have been a worse example to them_." A trembling, bubbling laugh. "_My son, the Soul Slayer_--"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up," chanted Isshin. But he felt his sword, still weak, struggling to channel its own strength down through his hands.

It was a chance.

"We'll get through this." A promise to his son, to himself, to the little girls who had ignored the opportunity for escape and hauled themselves close enough to hold onto their brother. "We'll all get through this--"

His tired eyes caught at a shred of light or darkness, the afterimage obscuring whatever had moved, or whatever had disappeared; and he realized that the noises around them had stopped, and the warmth was returning to Ichigo's skin.

Isshin raised his head. Karin was sitting up, trying not to lean on Yuzu's shoulder; beyond them, Ichigo's sword was standing upright with its tip buried in the earth, and the night buzzed with noises of small insects and the distant traffic of the living world.

Ichigo drew in a faint breath, and looked up at his father.

"You," Isshin said, "are _grounded_." And then he started laughing and couldn't stop, because the bright flush of outrage on his son's face was something he would never tire of living for.

_____


End file.
